And Grant, my god, he must be a sadist after all, given how placid he is. How easy, how pleased. He cleans me up, cleverly avoiding direct contact with my neediest bits, presses my legs together, drags my skirt down over my hips, and helps me up to sitting.
“Good girl.”
“You asshole.”
“No, no, no, sweetie. You’ll see. It’ll be so good when it’s over.”
“Over? What? When is that?”
A kiss pressed to my temple. “Later.”
“No. Oh my god, I hate you so much.”
“Do you?” A smirk. “Come on. Let’s get you hydrated.”
I growl. The jerk just laughs.
Twenty minutes later, I’m back at my desk, fed, watered, and coddled within an inch of my life. I’m also angry as a wet hen that he won’t put me out of my misery.
Nonetheless, I don’t once consider going to the bathroom and taking care of it myself. That would be cheating. And Grant knows as well as I do that I’m a rule follower at heart.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Rae
GRANT IS DEAD TOme.
He left for his emergency meeting with Dorothy around 5:00 p.m. and hasn’t come back. Now, at almost 7:00 p.m., I’ve just finished up payroll. I am tired, hungry, and… yes, horny as a horndog in heat. I want that orgasm he promised, dammit! It’s mine!
But no way in hell am I going to ask him for it.
Because submissive in bed I may be—or on the floor, the desk, chair, and sex bench—but I’m not running after the jerk for this O. I just won’t do it. I’ll take care of the deed myself.
So instead of going to my dad’s or my sister’s or by the store for something to eat, I rush home, pour Pepe an extra helping of food, and climb up on my bed.
It doesn’t come, though. Or, rather, I don’t.
Maybe it’s the lighting. I reach over and turn my lamp off. Nothing.
The music?
I dig through my music app for something resembling the dark, bass-heavy background music he’d played today at the club, run my hands up under my skirt… and… nope.
Sighing, I pull my toy chest out from under the bed and grab my favorite suction clit stimulator. Turn it on…
And can’t quite get myself to press it to my body because…
“Can you believe it, Pepe?” Pepe meows a reply. “He told me not to… and now I can’t.”
Ignoring that last bit, the cat yawns, and nonchalantly stretches a leg out to fully clean his belly. I hate him too. I hate all of them. Everyone.
And then my phone buzzes.
I pick it up, see Grant’s name, and hit accept. “Hey, Sunny.”
“Don’tHey, Sunnyme,” I nearly shout into the phone.
“Aww, you suffering, sweetie?”
